Ello

(He is sitting at the kitchen table, poring over a stack of take-out menus. She is emptying the dishwasher.)

He: I want to eat till I’m sore.
She: We need to talk.
He: “Curry and naan” sounds like a company you order soap from.
She: We can’t keep wasting—
He: You like red sauce, yeah?
She: We have what we need here.
He: Or cheeseburgers?
She: I can make you something.
He: How come delivery cheeseburgers never come with fries?
She: Just tell me what you want.
He: Or pizza. But I like Hawaiian, and—
She: If you’d just talk to me—
He: I’m not sure what you like.
She: I like you.
He: I’m hungry.
She: I miss you.
He: I’m fucking hungry.
She: I don’t know what you want.
He: No one’s ever been hungrier than I am.
She: I want to help.
He: Right now.
She: Do you even remember my name?
He: I don’t know what I want.
She: You only know—
He: I only know—
She and He: (together) You/I want it right now.
He: I wish I knew.
She: I wish you’d talk to me.
He: Noodles?
She: About something.
He: Chicken?
She: Anything.
He: Ka-bobs?
She: Ever.
He: Tacos?
She: This is how my parents ended up.
He: I wish I could make up my mind.

(She throws a dinner plate to the floor, shattering it. He looks at her, shocked. Pause.)

He: I’m starving.

(She takes out a can of soup, opens it, pours it into a saucepan and places it on the stove. He smiles at her, gratefully. End.)